


I am Prudii

by AngelAxexinf



Category: Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Father problems, Gen, Gender Identity Crisis, Identity, Trans, Transgender, as well as other crises, draaaaaamaaaaaa, early morning kitchen convos couldn't be more stressful tbh, just some very protective big brothers, not clonecest tho, protective brotherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:19:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelAxexinf/pseuds/AngelAxexinf
Summary: An early morning conversation in the kitchen quickly goes south.





	I am Prudii

It’s early--too early for any sane person--but the lack of the sun’s rays creeping over the horizon doesn’t hinder Prudii’s movements through back door and into the kitchen. He sets the items in his arms down on the counter top: two baskets, two empty bottles of soft liquor (not quite wine, but not quite strong enough to be “hard” either), and his helmet. Prudii runs a hand through his hair, exhales a small, tiny breath that dissipates into the darkness of the homestead’s kitchen.

Kal’s kitchen. If only Kal’buir knew what he’d been up to a mere hour earlier.

Prudii stands amongst the dark things in the kitchen, chairs and tables and crates of foodstuffs barely visible, melding with the edges of the pre-dawn darkness. It still smells like old food, even with the scent of citrus cleaner trying to mask it.

The darkness presses in on him; Prudii savors it, relishes in this moment of quiet before the homestead would begin waking up.

Lastly, Prudii rests his helmet--now black with green surrounding the T-slit visor--on the hardstone countertop, nudging a few centimeters from the edge.

“Where’ve you been?”

Prudii near jumps out of his _beskar’gam_ , his fingers closing around the hilt of his blaster before he makes out that it’s Mereel’s voice that floated from the corner of the kitchen, and not someone else’s.

Not Kal’s. That’s what Prudii had been worried about.

“ _Kriff_ , Mereel,” Prudii whispers, relaxing. The small adrenaline high leaves him flutter-hearted. “Thought you were an intruder.” _I thought you were Kal._

“You’re not one to jump, Prud’ika,” Mereel says. Prudii can’t see it, but he knows he’s raising a curious brow at him, however low his voice is.

Prudii doesn’t say anything, simply matches Mereel’s pose on the opposite side of the kitchen: leaning against the edge of the hardstone, one foot stuck out and the other backed up against the floor-level cupboards.

“Where’ve you been?” Mereel repeats. Prudii, his eyes adjusting to the dark, can now see that his brother has a caf mug in his hand.

“Out.”

“For two days?”

“What’s it to you?”

Mereel silently readjusts his stance. Prudii thinks he might be bracing for an argument when he remembers: Mereel is on _his_ side. He’s asking because he cares.

“It’s not for me,” Mereel says. “For Kal.”

Silence descends. Prudii, even in the dark, avoids Mereel’s gaze. He can just barely make out his brother’s golden eyes catching what little light is in the kitchen. 

Kal could let Mereel run about, be gone for days on end with only a word or two here or there; Ordo does the same, but with more messages. Every one of _Kal’buir’s_ sons gets let loose on Mandalore _except_ Prudii. Kal has to know where he is. Kal has to know where he’s going. He pretends he isn’t being a mother krayt dragon, but he is.

“Tell him I was out.”

Mereel sips whatever’s in his cup; there’s no steam. “You a dancer?” he asks over the lip of the cup.

“Huh?” Then Prudii touches his eye and smudges what he knows isn’t what a normal Mando would wear. He’d forgotten about the make up. He instantly bristles. “...Is there a problem with it, Mereel?”

“I’m on _your side_ , Prud’ika,” Mereel says gently. “I was only asking.” Another sip.

Prudii relaxes again, folding his lips in. The kitchen is suddenly very cold. “Sorry, _ner vod_.”

Mereel’s _knows_. Mereel is on his side. Anything he asks would never be to jeopardize Prudii’s confidence in him, Prudii’s safety.

“Who were you with?”

“Lenja.” Prudii casts a quick look at the baskets and empty bottles of liquor. He’d have to clean out the dishes within them before anyone woke up.

“You like him?” This isn’t even the slightest bit subtle. He sounds genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think he was your type, to be honest.”

“You _introduced_ us.”

“Still…”

Prudii recalls the night in the bar: dim lights, similar yet different armor patterns scattered across the neatly-filled local bar because it was raining out, but not hard enough to keep regulars away. There had been several drinks between Mereel and Prudii when Prudii let (most of) everything out, and Mereel agreed right then and there that he’d find someone for him, “Someone who can fuck you before death does.”

Mereel had spun in his chair, sitting in it backwards and scanning his narrowed eyes over the crowd. He’d spotted another Mando--dark skin, even darker hair, the most beautiful lips and eyes Prudii had ever seen--and was clear across the bar space before Prudii could tell him to stop. Then the pair was talking, Mereel was pointing and jabbing wildly, and the man that Prudii now knows as Lenja was beckoning him over, offering his cup of ale.

Mereel finally moves the cup away from his lips, gesturing with it to Prudii’s face. “He do that to you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” Prudii hisses, instantly on edge again.

“ _Prud’ika_ ,” Mereel says again, slowly so that he can hear the slow roll of the ‘r’. “I’m on _your side_. I was only asking.”

Prudii inhales, exhales--both soundless in the still air. He runs another agitated hand through his hair. It’s getting long. “Sorry.”

“It’s something you’re interested in; that’s fine. Nobody should care, anyways.” Mereel places the cup in the sink, turning on the faucet to rinse out its contents. Every move is slow and deliberate, from tipping the cup over and gently shaking to replacing it in an upper cabinet and taking out a second one.

Slow, obvious, intentional. In this current conversation, he doesn’t want to do anything startling.

“Kal would care.” Kal _cares_ . He cares, perhaps more than a father should care about his adult murder-capable sons. Kal cares enough to build the homestead and try to push every one of his kids into finding “a nice girl with some nice _beskar’gam_ .” The word _Prudii_ is always attached to the end of that phrase, silently hanging over his head.

He looks left, through the window that rests on the wall above the sink. The sky is tinged with greys and light yellow-oranges now, the sun making its slow creep between the trees. Once dawn settles on the ground, the homestead would wake.

The sound of a chair scraping loudly against the wood floors makes the both of them jump. It’s Ordo, still clearly tired but uninterested in sleep and seeking company. His looks up at Prudii, surprised as ever. “Oh, Prudii!” he says in a normal speaking voice. “Where’ve you been, _ver vod_?”

Mereel shoots him a sharp glare. “Lower your voice, for kriff’s sake. You’ll wake the strill.”

But Ordo isn’t paying attention to him. He’s looking at Prudii’s face--no, _scrutinizing_ it, more. But he senses that any questioning would instantly drop him into sensitive territory. Ordo tips his head to one side. “That’s...interesting, what you’ve got there, Prudii.”

To all of their surprise--and completely against their upbringing as Null Arcs and Mandalorians--Prudii makes a very open display of embarrassment. He ducks his head, placing one fist over his painted lips.

Ordo at least has the decency to look abashed himself for his phrasing. “It looks good on you.”

Prudii remains silent. Even when not looking at either of them, he knows Mereel is giving Ordo _a look_.

So Ordo now knows. At least it’s not Kal.

He tries to redeem himself but can’t keep his blunt nature from coming through. “It’s not something you’d normally see on a man, is all.” He means no offense. They all know this.

There’s a beat of silence, a beat that stretches all the way through Prudii for what feels like years before he brings up the strength to fight it down and speak. He drops his hand from his mouth; for the barest second, he looks like he’s lost himself, staring hard at the countertop beside Mereel.

Softly, barely even audible. “I’m not a man.”

The silence grows.

Ordo looks between Mereel and Prudii, noting the look the former gives the latter. He’s sure to maintain the exact position he has in his chair, keeps his voice even. Ordo and Mereel share a look. _Don’t scare him away._

Carefully, gently. “Are you a woman?”

Even quieter. “No.”

All that is heard is each person’s respective breathing. Prudii rubs his eye, smudging the make up. He bends over the sink behind him--there are multiple in the kitchen--turning on the faucet and washing his face off. The colors run down the drain, lingering on the stainless steel interior of the sink. He comes back up, face wet and mostly clear.

For a long time, there’s no sound, no movement, probably even no breathing. Water drips over Prudii’s chin.

“Then what are you? What do we call you?” Ordo asks.

“I’m still Prudii.” He hates the begging edge on his voice. Kal hates people who beg. _I’m still Prudii_ . “I’m still _Prudi’ika_.”

“Then that’s where we start,” Ordo says.

There’s the oddest mix of emotions settling in Prudii now, the strangest combination of released-fear, confidence, and anxiety all pooling in a cocktail that sits in his chest.

“You’ve still got some party on your face, _ner vod_ ,” Ordo points out, waving to his own face. “You might need an industrial cleaner for that.”

Prudii swears, viciously rubbing his eyes. “I’ll deal with it later.”

He’s getting used to the bouts of quiet between their words. Ordo’s gaze on him is intense but non-judgmental. He’s simply looking at him anew, studying the face of someone who was once a brother but is still family, just as close.

“So what are you?” Ordo asks. “I mean, what do we call you around others?”

“Even though I’m not one, just say I’m a man for now.” Until Prudii can find a new word to define himself, he would settle for what others use for him. It’s simplest. It’s _safest_.

“‘Not a man’?” A new voice, a new body forms by the main entrance to the kitchen, barefoot and looking bemused. Kal smiles. “‘Not a man’, Prudii? What, did an angry girl get a hold of you with a knife?”

The worst chill runs through his body, making his arms stiff and his heart stop. He avoids looking at Kal, shifting his attention to the door post just behind his head. He folds his lips in, quieter than the silence that has befallen them.

Kal is still smiling; he thinks this is a joke. “Was it a _shabuir_ that did this? Made one of my sons feel like he wasn't a man?” He turns serious, the old weathered lines in his face sharpening, more defined. A low growl forms in the back of his throat--for a moment, his voice is the only sound in the still dark kitchen.  “I promise, once I find him, I’ll--”

It's just one step that Kal takes. Just barely a barefoot crossing the threshold, onto the cold tile--towards Prudii. Ordo and Mereel move as one unit. Ordo turns in his chair, from facing Prudii to turning to face Kal. He doesn't rise; he leans forward in the seat, just the barest _creak_ audible in the beat of silence after what Kal says. His hand grips the back of the chair-- _hard_. The wood groans.

Mereel doesn't waste time on subtlety. He physically places himself between Prudii and Kal’s line of flight.

The message is received. Kal’s snarl dampens, falls away completely as his now alert eyes flick quickly between Prudii, Ordo, and Mereel.

His eyes settle on Prudii. “What's that on your face, son?”

Mereel shoots a quick glance to Ordo before cutting in. His voice is terrifyingly steady, smooth and undisturbed yet _intentional_ . “ _Kal’buir_ ,” he says. “It's nothing, leave him--”

“ _No_ , Mereel.” In four short steps he's in the kitchen and standing directly opposite Prudii. “I want to hear it from him.”

Prudii ducks his head, every form of terror and shame and agony in his eyes even while his face remains completely still. His gloved fingers grip the edge of the hardstone, the other balled in a tight fist. They're visibly trembling. He can't look at Kal.

“ _What_ is on your face, son?” Kal demands, raising his voice. The light of dawn breaks through the small sink window. “Is that _make up_?”

Prudii is breathing hard, his breastplate rising and falling with notable repetition. He swallows. “It's nothing, Kal,” he whispers, his voice thin.

“'Nothing’?” Kal scoffs. “This isn't 'nothing’, son. You've got kriffing _makeup_ on, and you've convinced yourself you're a woman all of a sudden!”

Prudii flinches. Ordo’s chair scrapes loudly against the tile floor; he wedges himself into the tiny hair’s-breadth space between them. “Kal,” he says, “ _drop it_.”

Kal ignores him. He's still fighting to look Prudii in the eye. “ _Look at me_ , Prudii--whatever _this_ is--” he motions to Prudii’s face. “-- _isn’t_ how I raised you, I damn well know.”

“Kal!” Mereel’s closed in on the small space now as well, shoulders tensed. “Hate to say this, _buir_ , but it’s none of your business.”

“What is this?” Kal looks aghast at the three of them. “My _son_ think he's a woman, he's--you’re wearing _make up_!”

“There isn't anything wrong with me!” Prudii snaps, pushing past both Mereel and Ordo. Anger rolls under his skin, threatening to burst and make him do something he’ll regret. “I'm not a man, and I'm not a woman--this is _my_ life, _buir.”_

“I raised you as a Mando man from _scratch_ !” Kal jabs a stubby finger at Prudii's chest plate. “I built this homestead from _scratch_ to give my boys a chance at a _good_ life, a life where you weren't canon fodder for some corrupt government.”

Prudii knows Kal. He knows he shouldn't have expected any less from the man, nothing less than resorting to his “this is the life I built for you” speech he uses when he thinks one of them is straying.

Back during the war, it would have worked. Each one of them would have sat in guilty silence, comparing the life they had in the army to the then-hypothetical _now_. It always looked so golden, so far off, a figment of Kal's increasingly drunk fantasy.

That was then. This is now, in the kitchen that Kal built for the life that Kal wants them to have.

“This is the life I built for my boys.”

It's true. It's the life that Kal built for him.

It's not the one that Prudii made for himself.

“I'm not ungrateful for that, Kal’buir,” Prudii says, an odd sense of calm falling over him. Early morning’s steadily brightening rays dance across the wall, stretching from ceiling to floor. “But I want to build a life for _myself_ , one where I'll have my own family--or no family--in my own time.”

Kal is only shaking his head, refusing to hear, refusing to listen. He may as well be physically covering his ears and making noise. “You had the life you deserved taken away from you by the aiwa-bait on Kamino. I know that they _dehumanized_ you all, made you out to be objects instead of people--instead of _men_ .” His dark eyes reach directly into Prudii's, a level of earnestness in them that makes him feel like he's being choked, like no part of his life is private or _his_ any longer.

 _The life_ Kal _built for them_.

“I knew those _auretiise_ hurt you in so many ways. I wish I could have seen. I wish I'd known it would come to this--” Again with the gestures to his Prudii's lingering make up. “I would have--”

“You would have _nothing_ , Kal!” Prudii raises his voice--something he never does. The anger is barely restrained, simmering so hot under his skin that his _beskar’gam_ feels like it’s frying him. “I _am_ what I _am_ . I’m a Mandalorian warrior--and I’m _Prudii_.”

“You’re my _son_ .” Kal looks like his heart is breaking. “ _Prudi’ika_ …” A pale, old hand reaches out.

Prudii looks at it, takes a step back, bumps into the countertop behind him. The empathy, the sadness, the shock Kal had mere milliseconds before burns down _hard_ . Sharp lines crease his brow and eyes, casting dramatic shadows on his face in the early morning light. “You would do this to your own _buir_ \--reject _everything_ about yourself--” He’s short, but he takes a step up, so close that Prudii can smell his breath and see the vein throbbing in his neck.

One hard hands instantly flashes out, grabs Kal’s shoulder and shoves him backward. He stumbles into the chair at the table, staring now in shock at Ordo, who has physically placed himself between Prudii and Kal.

“Ordo,” Kal bites out. “Talk some _sense_ into your brother.”

“Don’t call Prudii that,” Ordo says, disturbingly calm. “You may think, _buir_ , that Prudii’s not right in the head just because he--” He stumbles over the pronoun. A small tug on his elbow from Prudii tells him to continue. “He’s still just as Mando as any of us. You _raised_ him--and he’s coming into his own, the way you would have wanted any of us to.”

Kal seems not to hear him. He peers around Ordo’s broad shoulder, trying and failing to catch Prudii’s eye. “You can’t deny this deepest part of yourself, son.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Prudii spits. He breathing hard, audible creaks making their own way out of his breastplate.

“Son.” Kal ignores him. “Think of everything you would be throwing away, the life you could have.”

Or maybe he’s making it up. Maybe he’s going crazy about the noises, about that morning, about it all--and suddenly he’s back on Kamino. White walls, white floors, white ceiling, flashes of red and blue laser fire piercing the hot air by his head. Burning, acrid smells of plasma and sweat and blood. He remembers training for his life, _fighting_ for his life.

His life. And Kal’s approval.

 _Make me proud_ , he’d say. _Make buir proud._

Funny, how that pride evaporate when they _don’t_ please Kal.

He remembers the dread. The cold, sinking feeling in his gut when he doesn’t complete a task or answer a question correctly and Kal looks at him with _those_ eyes, with _that_ face. There was no cry of _kandosii!_ but only a look of dismay and lost hope.

Worse still was when he would get angry, scream hateful words that burned for months after in Prudii’s bones. _“This is your duty!”_ he would yell, so close and enraged that there are a disturbing number of memories with either Mereel or Ordo hanging _just_ in his peripheral vision, watching, intent. _Ready._

 _That is your_ purpose _, chakaare,_ he’d spit, and Prudii would believe him with all his heart, too. _To fight, to protect, to win._

 _Make me proud_.

_That is your purpose._

He gasps like he’s come up from under a frigid lake, but he’s in the kitchen of the homestead Kal built. The walls and ceiling are cast in pale grey light. Prudii feels like he’s been tuned out of his surroundings for several years. His senses click into place one by one.

The other three look at him like it, too. Kal has finally fallen silent, and he regards Prudii carefully, occasionally flicking a nervous eye to Ordo.

Prudii’s head snaps up. He’s aware of his breathing, of the raw sense of _purpose_ tearing through his veins down to his very core.

He is _Prudii_ , first and foremost.

“I don’t owe you _anything_ ,” he says, voice disturbingly still yet raw sounding at the same time. “I don’t have to please you any more than Mereel, Ordo, or the rest of us do. That life is behind us--behind _me_.”

Kal’s mouth snaps open and shut before a small, stunted syllable of protest makes it’s way out. Prudii doesn’t care. He interrupts him: “ _My_ life,” he growls. “And I want you to make sure you _know_ that I am not a man, and I am not a woman. I am _Prudii_. I’m a Mandalorian warrior like my brothers.”

He crosses the meter of space between them, right up to Kal’s face so that their noses are almost touching. The shadow of his body blocks the sun. “And I am _done_ pleasing you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was in my feelings lmao.


End file.
